How to buy the perfect wedding gift

Memorial Day weekend, Brad and I packed up our formal wear and drove out to New Jersey for the long-awaited nuptials of my friends, B. and S. I understand, based on anecdotal evidence from people in their 30s, that my life for the next five years will be packed chock-full of this sort of thing. People are inevitably going to pair off, and move in together, and trade in the culture of "Single Fun" for the culture of "Destination Weddings", followed by the culture of "My Baby Could Walk At Three Months So I Guess Yours Might Be Retarded".

This is bad news for me, in part because I'm pretty sure – as someone with no money and no maternal instinct – that I'll be on the losing end of the marriage-and-baby competitions. (If my experience with the dog is any indication, I'll be so exhausted by the task of raising whatever kids I have that I'll eventually give up on teaching them anything too difficult – like empathy, or math – and consider it a success as long as they don't pee on the floor.) But in the more immediate future, I have a different-but-related problem which I discovered this weekend: I kind of suck at being a Wedding Guest.

It started with the gift. This being the first time I was attending a wedding without playing the role of either Flower Girl or Someone Else's Date, it somehow didn't occur to me that I was supposed to get a gift. Then, three weeks before the big day, my mother clued me in.

"What will you get them for a gift?" she asked.

To which I replied, "Oh, fuuuuuuuck."

Two hours later, I was staring dumbfounded at an online registry that was flush with china, hand-woven rugs, delicate glass bowls, and kitchen gadgets of curious design. I had too many questions. Did I need to get multiple things? Did I have to spend a certain amount to maintain friend status? The more I clicked around, the more confused and panicky I felt. Could I buy
only one plate from a set of six? What the hell was "fondant"?

I was overwhelmed. I was confused. Also, having just signed most of my disposable income over to a real estate broker, I was on a seriously ball-squeezing budget.

And that's when I saw it – the Perfect Present. A cheerful household item, a kitchen standard. It was attractively designed, it wasn't part of a set, and it was – bless its little heart – something I could afford. High on the rush of adult gift-giving and wanting to snag the Perfect Present before some other, equally confused future guest snapped it up, I didn't hesitate. I bought it.

Later, I began to doubt my decision. I'd been awfully hasty in my selection. I called my mother to check.

"You got them what?" she said, incredulous.

"It was just so overwhelming!" I said. "There were all these things, and they were either really expensive or I didn't know what they were, and I didn't know what to do!"

"Oh dear," she sighed. And then, "Well, I'm sure it's alright."

The day before the wedding, I got a thank-you note from the bride.

It said,

Dear Kat: Thank you for the wonderful apple-corer.

My friend S. is a classy, classy girl.

And I am such an asshole.

Domestic disturbances

Hurley the Dog is losing his teeth at a rapid rate. Brad claims it’s normal, but I’m pretty sure something is wrong with him. My family always had dogs, and although they weren’t uniformly excellent, I’m pretty sure that none of them were ever stumbling around the house dribbling blood-stained drool from their jowls and relentlessly pursuing the most recently-lost tooth into a corner in order to eat it. Nope. I am pretty sure that my mother would never have allowed that.

But, normal or not, it’s happening, and it’s happening all the time. Which means that, every morning, I struggle to get dressed in office-appropriate clothing while the dog struggles to accessorize my outfit with crimson-tinted slime from his oozing tooth-holes. There’s a rhythm to it; I put my pants on one leg at a time, but in between legs, I pause for a ten-second interlude of shrieking objection while the dog lunges at me and I attempt to banish him from the room.

It’s really hard to accomplish much of anything while wearing half a pair of pants.

A few days ago, I pulled on a dress and looked up to see Hurley advancing on me, blood pooling at the corners of his mouth like Sylvester Stallone in Rocky, and freaked.

“God damnit, get out of here!” I yelled.

The dog looked unperturbed.

Brad came into the room and shooed him away from me.

“Aww, poor guy,” he said, addressing the dog. “Your mom doesn’t like you.”

“No,” I said, exasperated, “I like the dog just fine. I just don’t like him bleeding all over my clothes.”

“He’s not bleeding,” said Brad.

“Yes he is,” I said.

“He’s not.”

“Ok fine, then you wipe his nasty bloody mouth with something white and see what happens.”

Brad tore a paper towel from the roll, folded it into neat quarters, and offered it to the dog.

He ate it.

If having children is anything like this, I think I’ll just skip it and buy myself a ham sandwich.

This article from the NYT is very informative and well-researched. It documents some of the oddities that live in the deep, dark, sun-bereft depths of the ocean, and it’s very important that we read it, and that we devote time and consideration to the extraordinary discoveries these scientists have made, and that we eventually understand the intricate biology of these undersea creatures.

And then, perhaps, somebody can explain what Steven Tyler is doing in the photo spread.

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAA.

Shame, shame, go away

Awhile back, I had an experience that – I think – falls well within the realm of Universal Embarrassment Experienced by Single Girls. Here it is: The winter before last, during a long, dry spell of no-boyfriend-ness, I went to a party – a really good one, the kind hosted by somebody who has much more money than you, where you can’t seem to turn a corner without somebody thrusting another Grey Goose and tonic into your hot little hand. My girlfriends and I circled the room, ate cheese, and moonlighted as bartenders for the sole purpose of flirting with boys. By 9pm, we were buzzed. At 10pm, we were fully inebriated and dancing on a couch in tank tops. And by 11pm, I was completely wasted, surrounded by drunk, pretty people, and actively looking for somebody to make out with – somebody who I found in the form of a flirty twentysomething guy, who was wearing a collared shirt and had pretentiously mussed-up hipster hair. We danced, shouting at each other over the music and awkwardly flailing around until we gave up and retreated to a spot on the wall with our drinks.

Twenty minutes later, standing arm-in-arm with my new friend, I realized that I was clinging to him less out of adoration and more because I could no longer feel my legs.

“Hey,” I said, still trying to look coy and desirable in spite of my premonition that I might vomit at any moment, “I think I’m gonna get out of here.”

“Okay,” said the guy.

“Okay,” I said, still hovering.

“Here, let me get your number,” he said resignedly, pulling out his phone. I looked over his shoulder while he entered it in. It fell into a digital pile of other K-names – Katie, Katrina, Kelly, Kristen – just one more conquest in a sea of approximately 1 million girls. Shit, I thought.

“Wow,” I said.

“What can I say,” he said. “I’m kinda popular.”

“I can see that.”

He shrugged.

"Well," I said.

“So, uh, I’ll call you.”

“Yeah, you should do that!” I replied, trying to sound non-committal and not at all desperate.

“Or what?” he said.

“Or, uh… I’ll… I’ll tell everyone you have herpes,” I said, and immediately thought, Oh, oh no no no, that was NOT smooth.

The guy looked at me with disgust.

“Ha, ha!” I said, lamely.

“Whatever,” he said.

The next morning, stumbling through a hangover haze, I vowed 1) to never attend another open bar party again, and 2) to forget, as immediately and thoroughly as possible, that I had ever tried to assure a next-day call by telling somebody I would trash their sexual reputation.

Here’s the thing: I think that this sort of embarrassment – the kind that seems to be a catch-all explanation for one’s inadequacy in the eyes of men– is both common and, for the most part, forgettable. In a city of 9 million, you need not dwell on the non-acquaintance who witnessed your awful social blunder. Who cares! The moment is past, the humiliation fades, the guy is just another anonymous face in the crowd. There’s no reason, none at all, to ever think about it again.

Unless, of course, there were other forces at work to painfully and repeatedly remind you of your own stupidity. Like, if it was caught on tape. Or if the guy was being talked about in the mainstream media every other week.

I mean, then you’d just have to kill yourself.

An American girl's favorite pastime

For several years, from roughly age 8-13, I played softball in an all-girls summer league in my hometown. The setup was probably small-town typical – we were separated into “12 and under”, “13 and over” groups and sponsored by local businesses, so that the fields were filled each night with hordes of girls, with caps and gloves and scuffed sneakers, wearing shirts emblazoned on the front with team names like “Paul’s Pizza” or “Pioneer Lumber”.

This was a Big Deal Formative Experience – organized sports, as we all know, teach girls about important stuff like self-esteem and the value of exercise and the Infield Fly Rule and Saving It For Marriage… or so they say. Unfortunately, my team was populated less by girls who were in need of some exercise and self-respect, and more by nightmarish Queen Bees who were already perfecting the behaviors that would qualify them for Regina George status once we all hit high school. I will never, never ever, forget the afternoon that Emily Johnson announced to our group of enthralled 11 year-olds that she wasn’t allowed to wear bike shorts or leggings anymore.

“You can’t? How come?” we asked.

“Because I’m developing,” she said. “My mom says I can’t wear stuff like that ‘cause it’ll show off every curve of my developing body.”

“Huh,” we said.

“Of course,” she continued, looking straight at me with narrowed eyes and total disdain, “some of you guys won’t ever develop.”

The rest of the girls backed away from me and tittered.

I went home that night and cried, convinced that I was a freak who would never grow any tits.

(I’d like to say that Emily grew up to be fat, or got knocked up and never graduated, or that she herself grew up to be a freak without any tits. But of course, life’s not fair that way.)

(She was, like, maybe a little bit fat, though.)

(And I actually did, eventually, grow some tits.)

Anyway, aside from it having been a breeding ground for cattiness of all kinds, softball was a good influence for one enduring reason: Due to the combined efforts of those coaches and my super-determined dad, I do not throw like a girl.

For awhile, I kinda had no idea about the “throwing like a girl” thing. I went to an all-girls prep school until 8^th grade. And even though some played ball better than others, there’s one thing for sure about a gym class of thirty chicks—everybody throws like a girl. Because, y’know, that’s what we were.

Then, in 1993, The Sandlot came along and clued me in:

You bob for apples in the toilet, and you LIKE IT!

And a couple years later, when I transferred back into public high school and got myself a boyfriend, I found out the truth: that every pickup ball game, gym class, or backyard catch session was more than just good, clean, American-Athletic fun—it was a battle for the reputation of ball-playing womanhood.

“What are you doing?” I’d call to the High-School Boyfriend, who was always edging closer and closer to me whenever it was my turn to throw the ball back in his direction.

“Just helping you out,” he’d call back, continuing to creep toward me with his glove outstretched.

“What? No! I don’t need your help, move it back!” I’d yell, hurling the ball toward his head as hard as I could.

Later on, drinking iced tea in the kitchen, he’d try to be nice about it.

“You know, you’re not bad,” he’d say.

“Hmph,” I’d reply, still miffed.

“I mean,” he’d continue, “for a girl.”

At which point I would fume over the injustice of it all, pound the table, call him an asshole, and then decide not to break up with him just so long as he didn’t start telling me that I’d never develop.

So I wasn’t surprised when, playing catch with Brad in the park last weekend, I started to feel a little bit tense. We found an open spot on the grass, put on our gloves, and backpedaled away from each other to create an acceptable throwing distance.

He stopped about twenty feet away from me and tossed the ball my way.

I caught it.

“Keep moving back!” I called, still walking backward to widen the gap between us.

Brad looked incredulous.

“Really?” he said.

My head started to feel hot.

“Yes!”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, damnit! What, you think I can’t throw it that far?”

“Chill out,” he said, backing up.

I threw the ball to him. He caught it and snapped it back to me, in that effortless guy-way that says, I knew how to do this when I was a fetus. I was intimidated.

“Further back,” I said, glowering.

“Why?”

“It’s not fun unless we’re throwing it further!” I yelled, beginning to feel a little bit hysterical. Brad looked amused, but took a few more steps back.

It was at this point that I realized the position I’d put myself in: Throw the ball well, and I’d prove that I wasn’t unjustified in demanding the extra distance. Throw it badly, and I was undermining not only my own skills, but proving every negative stereotype ever voiced about girls and their inability to play ball. Anything less than a perfect throw-and-catch, every time, and I was single-handedly bringing the feminist cause to the ground.

I took a deep breath and threw it back.

Brad caught it.

“Alright, that one had some heat on it,” he said.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

We played catch for another hour. I accidentally threw it in the dirt a few times, and I wasn’t brilliant, but hey-- I did okay. A few old men (the last remaining demographic on earth to get a little novelty-kick out of a girl wearing a baseball glove) stopped and watched us throw. Eventually, growing bored and wanting beer, we packed it in and started home.

“Sorry about being squirrely,” I said as we pulled off our gloves. “It’s just hard playing catch when you’re a girl. It’s like, it isn’t just about you throwing and catching. You’re there as a representative of girls everywhere, and then if you fuck up, you reinforce every bad thing people think about girls not being able to throw a baseball.”

“It’s ok,” said Brad. “You did good.”

“Really? Yay!” I said, feeling completely vindicated. Because, after all, guys know about that stuff.

As we started for the park exit, one of the old men who had been watching us play waved and gestured to me.

“Hey, you! Maybe you oughta play for the Yankees!” he shouted.

“Oh yeah?” I called back, riding on a cloud of athletic accomplishment.

“Yeah,” he said. “They suck this year!”

The road less travelled is paved with absent schlongs

Today’s issue of “Dear Googly” comes courtesy of a visitor from the UK, who stumbled across pink india ink in the following search:

Well, my new British friend: Welcome, and... uh, can I get more context, here? Whose penis disappeared? And in what capacity? Are you writing in as a curious hypothesizer? As the victim of a disappeared peen? As the concerned friend of somebody with the aforementioned problem? Information, man! How can I help you if you won’t help me?!

Ah, well. Let me just say this: If, for instance, you sloughed off your trunks after a cold-water swim and discovered that your penis had disappeared, worry not. It will return. Slowly, and with hesitance at the prospect of being subjected to yet another icy plunge, but it will eventually be as it was before.

Caveat to the above: If the aforementioned swim was in open water, better check again for bite marks and/or trauma to the area, just to be sure that it wasn’t eaten by a shark.

Caveat to the caveat: If you are searching as a victim of a disappeared peen, and you haven’t been swimming – that is, if you woke up this morning to discovered that your penis had simply winked out of existence – you should probably go to the emergency room.

Question in followup to the caveat: Is it only the penis? Or have the balls disappeared, too?

Note to self: I’ve really got to stop writing about dicks.

Unpacking the junk.

Welcome back, friends to ROOM WITH A VIEW OF A PENIS. Today I’m posting the exciting conclusion of my first ever serial essay, the amazing true story of several weeks spent in a Harlem apartment bordered on all sides by weirdos. If you haven’t yet, please catch yourself up with Chapters One, Two , Three, Four, and Five, before forging ahead to…

Chapter 6: Things Come to a Head

Several weeks later – weeks during which I had been preoccupied by my job, my social calendar, and my acquisition of a fantastically gay new roommate named Stephen, but which had been very quiet on the “seeing an unwanted penis” front – I was washing dishes in my kitchen. It was summertime, the air was warm, I was happily scrubbing out the remains of a tomato-and-mint sauce from my saucepan, and my rowdy teenaged neighbors were nowhere to be seen.

I like it here, I thought to myself. I think I’ll live in Harlem for another three years.

Then, across the alley, I heard a sound. The skritttt of a window sash being raised, the whisper of curtains against the sill.

“God damnit,” I muttered, turning toward the sound and expecting to be bombarded any moment by two 14 year-old boys, hanging out their window and shrieking, “Hey, mami!!! NICE ASS!!!”

There was movement behind the curtains, but no yelling. A shadow materialized just beyond the fabric. And then, through the gap between the chintzy panels, something emerged.

The saucepan slipped from my hand and clattered into the sink.

Across the alley, all that could be seen of my neighbors was a disembodied penis, sticking amiably out the window.

Stephen dashed into the kitchen.

“Honey! What was that noise?!”

“I… I…” I stammered, then regained my composure. “I mean, look,” I said disgustedly, waving my hand in the direction of the window, where the penis continued to salute from between the curtains.

“Oh my god, it’s a cock!” yelled Stephen.

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, it is.”

“Is that for you?” he said, delightedly.

“I guess so, but I mean, I’d kind of prefer that it wasn’t.”

“It is kind of small.”

“That’s really not what I meant.”

“Oh,” he said. He looked out the window. The penis was still there.

“I think I’m going to leave the room now,” I said.

“Don’t worry, hun,” said Stephen. “I’ll take care of this.”

Moments later, from my new location (lying on the living room couch, in the fetal position, whimpering), I suddenly heard a rapid succession of sounds:

Thudthudthudthud.

…and then:

Thwap!

…and then, from outside:

AAAAAAAAAGH!

I leaped off the couch and bolted toward the window. Across the alley, the new penis had disappeared. Stephen came running into the living room, grinning and giggling.

“What was that?” I said.

“Nuthin’!” he replied, gleefully bouncing up and down.

“Oh my god, what’s going on? What did you do?”

Stephen stopped bouncing.

“I took care of the problem,” he said indignantly.

“What problem?”

“Your neighbors! They won’t be bothering you anymore.”

“Wait, what? Why?”

“Because,” he said, beginning to grin and giggle again, “I showed them MY cock, and now that they’ve seen it, I don’t think they’ll show you their cocks ever again.”

And they didn’t.

The end.

I only got far enough to think that I should make some kind of "falling action" joke.

Thanks, as always, for coming back to Pink India Ink in order to see the next exciting installment of ROOM WITH A VIEW OF A PENIS. Here are the obligatory catch-up links:

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4

Today, I am presenting:

Chapter 5: In Which I Do Not Actually See a Penis

For the next ten minutes, I sat in the dark and stared out the back window, where Mr. D-in-the-W was hovering, naked, and peering out intermittently from behind a curtain. I was hoping to see the police burst, S.W.A.T. Team-style, into Mr. D-in-the-W’s apartment and throw him against a wall, where he would hopefully suffer an irremediable bruise to the penis and be too embarrassed forthwith to show it to anybody.

Instead, there was a flurry of activity behind the curtain, and the lights went out.

Several minutes passed.

Then, the lights came back on, and the curtain was pulled aside. There stood Mr. D-in-the-W, now clad in a pair of pants, and looking like he was about to cry. Officers Talky and Not- were flanking him on either side. My phone rang. I snatched up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Ma’am, this is the New York Police Department. Did you have officers respond to your call?”

“Yes, they were just here,” I said.

“They’d like you to look out your window.”

“Ok?”

“Are you looking?”

“Yeah, but why am I—“

Across the alley, Officer Talky whipped out a giant, NYPD-issue flashlight.

“Whoa,” I said.

Della came out of her room again.

“What’s happening now?” she asked.

“They went over there to talk to him, and they’re standing in the window, and one of them just… well, look!”

She did.

“What’s with the flashlight?”

“I don’t know… oh, wait,” I said, remembering that I still had the NYPD operator on the phone. “Sir? Sir, why do the officers want me to look out my window?”

“Hang on,” said the operator.

“Maybe they’re going to beat him with it,” said Della.

“Or stick it up his ass,” I said.

“What?” said the operator.

“Uh… nothing,” I said.

Across the alley, Officer Talky switched the flashlight on and turned toward Mr. D-in-the-W, who was visibly shaking and appeared to be jabbering non-stop at the police.

“Ma’am,” said the NYPD operator, “They want to know if this is the man you saw earlier.”

“Oh, it is.”

“No, ma’am, they’re going to shine the light on him, and then you tell me if it’s the same man.”

“What? No, it’s ok, it’s definitely the same guy, I can see him fine right now.”

“It’s procedure, ma’am.”

“Proce…. what?”

“Ma’am, are you looking out the window?”

“Yes! Geez, yes, I’m looking.”

Across the alley, Officer Talky turned his flashlight full on the face of Mr. D-in-the-W, who jumped and tried to struggle away.

“Ma’am?”

“Yes, yes, it’s him! Can I stop looking now?”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Click.

Across the alley, the curtain fell closed again.

“This is like Theatre of the Absurd,” said Della.

Five minutes later, a knock came at my front door. I opened it to find Officers Talky and Non- once again.

“Hi there,” I said.

They trooped past me into the living room again.

“Well,” said Officer Talky, puffing his chest out, “We had a little chat with him.”

“Ok,” I said.

“He, uh, he had some mental problems,” said Officer Non-Talky, piping up for the first time.

“But,” Officer Talky continued, “We went over there and we told him, we said, ‘You can’t be exposin’ yourself to a lady like that.’”

“Yeah,” said Officer Non-Talky, “And we said, ‘Hey, if you wanna do that, you do it on your own time, you don’t do it in the window where a lady can see your bid’ness.’”

“And then,” said Officer Talky, “We said, ‘If you do that thing again, we’re comin’ back, and we ain’t gonna be so nice next time.’”

There was a pause.

“And then we left,” Officer Non-Talky added, as an afterthought.

“Great,” I said.

“So don’t you worry, he won’t be doing that again.”

“Great. Well, ok,” I said. “Thanks, Officers, for… uh, serving and protecting me.”

“No problem,” said Officer Talky.

I closed the door behind them and listened to them clomp down the stairs. Once they were gone, I went back into my bedroom, and switched on the light.

Across the alley, Mr. D-in-the-W peeked out from behind the curtain. He was wearing a plaid shirt, pants, and a hat.

He shook his fist at me.

(And…. I’ll see you on Monday, for the exciting conclusionary epilogue of ROOOOOOOM WITH A VIIIIIEEEEEEWWW OF A PEEEEEENISSSSSS!!!)

Denouement

The trick with this serial fiction thing is to publish at intervals, with enough time between to keep the audience titillated, but not so much that they lose interest and go off to get a ham sandwich just when you’re about to reveal the thrilling climax of the entire story.

Just to recap, this is, of course, ROOM WITH A VEW OF A PENIS, my serialized story of one very bad neighbor. If you haven’t yet, please navigate your way through the first three chapters via the following links:

Chapter One: Introduction
Chapter Two: Meet the Penis
Chapter Three: The Penis Returns

Today, it’s…

Chapter Four: The NYPD

I opened the door ten minutes later to find two, fully-uniformed police officers standing outside. They strode into the apartment and stood in my living room. The shorter of the two, who was clearly the more talkative of the pair (and will be hereafter referred to as “Officer Talky”), started asking questions.

“Now, you said there’s a man harassing you, is that right?”

“Harassing? Well… pretty much, yeah, that sums it up.”

“And where is he?”

“In the building out back.”

“He’s in another building?” Officer Talky looked at his partner, who furrowed his brow and looked confused. Clearly, there had been some sort of communication breakdown between my 311 operator and the NYPD.

“He’s in the apartment that faces mine,” I said, “And he’s standing in his window, and he’s naked.”

Office Talky gave me a stern look which I took to mean, The NYPD has more important issues to deal with than a freaked-out dizzy white girl who accidentally saw her neighbor’s ass. I realized that I needed to step up the explanation.

“He’s naked on purpose,” I said urgently, giving Officer Talky a look that I hoped would convey my level-headedness. He looked confused.

“What do you mean, ‘on purpose’?”

“I mean, he’s in his window, naked, and…” –I couldn’t say “masturbating” to a police officer – “you know, he’s… doing things.”

“Ma’am, I’m not really follo—“

Something inside of me came unhinged.

“For Christ’s sake, he’s flogging it! He has his dick in his hand and he is FLOGGING IT, Officer, and it’s gross, and the 311 lady said that he’s not allowed!!!”

There was a moment of silence. Officer Talky and his friend appeared to be biting the insides of their cheeks to keep from laughing, and it dawned on me that perhaps the source of the “confusion” hadn’t been so much a breakdown of communication between 311 and the NYPD as a desire, on the part of the police, to make me say the word “dick”.

Officer Talky took a deep breath.

“Alright. Is he over there now, ma’am?”

“I think so.”

“Ok, we want you to turn out all your lights, and we’re going over there, and we’ll have a little talk with him. What does he look like?”

“He’s tall and thin, with short hair,” I said.

“Ok.”

“And he’s got a pencil moustache, I think.”

“You think?”

“He’s all the way across the alley, I can’t see his face that well.”

“Can you tell us anything else about him?”

"He’s naked and smacking his junk against the windowpane?”

Officer Talky gave me the stern look again.

“Well, he was,” I said.

Officer Non-Talky made a gurgling, tee hee hee sort of noise.

“Alright, ma’am,” said Officer Talky. The two of them trooped out of my apartment and down the stairs. I went back into the living room and began switching off lights.

Della, who had been sitting in her room, poked her head out.

“Um,” she said, “you could have just said that he’s ‘touching himself’.”

“No way,” I said. “That makes it sound all new-agey and sensitive.”

(Come back tomorrow, for the exciting conclusion!)

Next chapter! Thank you for coming...

...and welcome back, once again to ROOM WITH A VIEW OF A PENIS, my little experiment in serial, trivial, genital nonfiction. Last Friday, I brought you, the reader, to an apartment in Harlem that would become the scene of unspeakable, penile horror. Yesterday, I introduced you to my neighbor-out-back, a man of few words, fewer inhibitions, and no pants.

Thanks for coming back today, for...

Chapter Three: The Penis Returns

The next night, I walked into the bedroom looking for a book. Without turning on the light, I peered out the window and across the back alley.

The window of the opposite apartment was dark. I flipped the light switch.

Out back, the lights came on, Mr. D-in the-W threw aside a curtain, and ran headlong at the window with penis in hand.

Thwap!!!!

“Jesus Christ!” I yelled, knocking the lamp to the ground. It went out. Mr. D-in-the-W hovered in the window, looking uncertain. He gave a few furtive taps to the glass, peering into the dark.

Della came back down the hall.

“Is he back?”

”Ugh, yes!”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know, I don’t even know if he’s, like, allowed to do this or not! There should be some kind of penis exposure information line or something.”

Della brightened up.

“What about 311?”

A second later, I was on the phone.

“Hello, thank you for calling 311,” said the operator.

“Hi there,” I said. “I, uh, need to know if something is illegal?”

“Ok,” said the operator.

“Yeah,” I said, "Ok."

"Ok?" said the operator.

"Yeah," I said, unsure where to begin. "So... there’s this guy? He’s in an apartment across the alley from me?”

“Yes?”

“And, um,” I stammered. Tricky conversations with phone strangers make me nervous. I tried again. “He’s… like, you know, doing something in his window. You know what I mean?”

“Ma’am?”

“I mean, he’s not wearing any clothes.”

There was a snorting sound.

“Hello?”

“Ok, ma’am, hang on one second.” I heard the sound of pages flipping, probably while the operator turned to the index and scanned for Man, naked. “Ma’am?”

“Yes?”

“Now, this man is in the apartment behind yours?”

"Yes.”

“And he’s in the window? How far away is it?”

“I don’t know, forty feet, maybe?”

“Ok. Now, when he does this thing, can he see you?”

“Yes.”

“And does he know that you can see him?”

I thought of Mr. D-in-the-W jumping up and down with glee as Della and I tried unsuccessfully to shame him into putting some pants on.

“Ma’am?”

“Er, yes. Yes, he knows I can see him.”

“Ok, and one last thing, what he’s doing, is it something that you would describe as ‘a lewd act’?”

“What?! Yes!” I practically shouted. “He’s… he’s… he’s flogging it!!! He's banging it against the windowpane! I can hear it hitting the glass!!!”

There was a long pause.

"Wow," said the operator.

“Sorry,” I said, “It’s just… I mean, is he allowed to be doing this?”

“No, of course he’s not,” she said. “I’m connecting you to the police now.”

Chapter 4 is coming tomorrow. Cheers!

Packing up some junk, Part II.

Welcome to the next installment of ROOM WITH A VIEW OF A PENIS, a serial work of non-fiction in 5, or maybe 6 or 7, chapters. If you missed Chapter One, please click here to catch yo'self up.

Ready? Ok.

And now, with everybody up to speed, I am proud to present...

Chapter Two: Meet the Penis

It was a warm night in June; I was in my bedroom, checking myself in the mirror and getting ready to go out, when I heard a noise. It was a strange sound. Did you ever have one of those “sticky ball” toys that came in vending machines at the super market? They were like gelled globs of goo, and if you threw them at the wall, they would stick there, and they made a very distinctive sort of thwap when they hit. I stopped what I was doing, mascara brush in hand, and listened.

Thwap, thwap.

It was coming from outside, and it increased in rhythm as I turned toward the window.

Thwap, thwap, thwapthwapthwapthwapthwapthwapthwapthwap.

I looked out, across the back alley, to the lighted window of the apartment facing mine.

There was a man in the window.

He was tall and thin, with a John Waters pencil moustache, and he was completely naked.

He was looking at me.

And he was banging his dick against the window.

Thwap, thwap, thwap.

“Oh my God,” I said, and switched off my light.

Across the alley, Mr. Dick-in-the-window looked disappointed.

My roommate, Della, came down the hall.

“Are you ok?” she said.

“Ugh, I just saw a penis,” I said.

“What? Where???”

“There’s a guy across the way, standing in his window, flogging it at me.”

“Ew!,” she said.

“I know,” I said. “And it was huge, too!”

“What are you going to do? Call the police?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I mean, it’s his apartment, can’t he kinda do whatever he wants?”

“Oh, well… I guess so. That sucks,” she said.

We both stood in the dark, thinking.

“Wait, I have an idea,” I said.

“Ok,” she said.

“I’m going to turn the light back on, and when he starts doing it again, we’ll point and laugh.”

“What?!”

“Well, I mean, if you were showing your penis to strangers, and they laughed at it, wouldn’t you be embarrassed and stop?”

“I don’t know,” she said, “I don’t think so.”

“Let’s just try it.”

“Ok.”

I flipped the light on.

The man was still there, dick in hand.

“Ha!” we shouted, pointing. “Ha! Ha ha, ha, ha!! HA!!!”

The man in the window smiled and started jumping up and down, flogging it even more vigorously.

Thwapthwapthwapthwapthwap.

I flipped the light off.

“Well, that didn’t work,” said Della.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” I said.

“What are you going to do?”

“Hope he doesn’t do it again, I guess,” I said. “I’m going out.”

(Please come back tomorrow for Chapter 3!)